


Game of Empires

by sasha3517



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Construction Worker Dean, Drunk John Winchester, F/M, M/M, Rich Castiel, Sick John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-22 16:12:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3735268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha3517/pseuds/sasha3517
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1915. Winchester and Co. Construction is an up and coming business in a very competitive field. John Winchester, sole owner, dies and Dean and Sam inherit the business, like they always knew they would. Trouble is, there's a few things along the way they didn't count on. They did not count on Castiel Novak, a wealthy oil tycoon, hiring their business to help build his empire. Dean never counted on liking the guy, either. Dean and Sam suddenly find themselves with a lot on their plate, like new found love and untangling their father's shady business dealings.</p>
<p>Tags/rating will be updated as the story is updated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meet the Winchesters

**Pontiac, IL.**

**1915**

Fate is funny, in the way it deals with its charges. She doesn't take into account the things we want or do not want; what we would like or not like. She simply acts, and we are left, broken, even after she’s gone to pick up the pieces.

Today, Dean hated fate. Dean also hated that his father, John Winchester, was putting even more responsibility on him than he already had. Dean’s father, John Winchester, owned an up and coming construction business. Winchester and Co. Construction was still small by any major standards, but was well known among the locals. Mostly, the company did small commercial and repair work, but sometimes they ventured out and did some residential work as well.

For as far back as Dean could remember, this company had meant everything to his father, and his father before him. For as far back as he could remember Dean had always hated it. It wasn’t the nature of the business he hated, no; it was the ungodly amount of time the business had kept his father away. Sometimes, Dean felt like his father was absent for at least half of his childhood, and even more of his brother Sam’s. Dean felt like his father had chosen his tools and drafting table over his wife, Mary, Sam, and himself.

Now, however, Dean was far from a child. He was twenty-four in fact, and was expected to go into the family business. Dean hadn't been so sure about this himself, but his sense of loyalty commanded him otherwise. Sam, for that matter was 20 and a man in his own right, though a young one. He had his own goals, and Dean had suspicions that Sam felt the same way about this company. While their mother had been alive, she encouraged them to live up to their fullest potential, to follow their dreams whatever they may have been. If Sam wanted to be a lawyer, fine, he could. If Dean wanted to open up a garage and work on cars, fine, he could. Their father encouraged only following in his footsteps.

As fate would have it, the two brothers had been summoned to their father’s office in downtown Pontiac, Ill. It was a small office building, but it served its greatest purpose of conducting business. When Sam and Dean had arrived, the old familiar Winchester and Co. Construction sign greeted them, as it had as far back as they both remembered. It looked a little more tattered, however, especially in the early afternoon light.

Dean opened the door and stepped inside, holding the door for Sam. The familiar scent of drafting paper and his father welcomed Dean as he stepped further inside, making room for his younger brother.

His father’s office building was not sparsely decorated by any means, but it was not extravagant either. The reception area for example, was equipped with a large desk, facing the door so whoever was manning it could see to customers as they came in. There was a clock, and a few black and white photos behind it. One of them was a photo taken only the year before, and it was of John and the boys, smiling, arms around each other, dressed up in three piece suits for some occasion or another. Another was of John and his father, before he’d passed away. The remaining few were of his father and his crew, on different construction sites, celebrating the completion of yet another job well done. Dean liked those the best. Some seats were situated across the room, presumably for customers that had to wait to be seen. Similar photos of John and his crew were peppered throughout the reception area, tacked up against painted white walls, while lightly scuffed wooden floors held the weight of the family business.

“Hi boys!” came a friendly voice from behind the reception desk. Ellen. Ellen and Jo, her daughter, were good friends to the Winchesters and ran the reception desk for John.

Dean smiled as he realized the desk was scattered as usual with notes and reminders Ellen had collected for John. A candlestick telephone stood out amongst the pile of papers, its receiver hung up on the side. Ellen dropped the fountain pen she’d been holding in favor of coming over to hug the boys, who were more like nephews to her than anything. It dropped with a muted ‘thud’ on top of the desk. Dean smiled in greeting, and removed his cap in an effort to exercise some manners. Sam did the same.

“Hello Ellen!” Dean said cheerfully as he was engulfed in a hug from her. He laughed genially as he was released and looked over just in time to see Sam taken up in the same manner.

They hadn't seen her for probably the better part of the year, but then again it was only early April. He noticed Ellen had adapted a short bobbed haircut. It suited her, he thought fondly to himself. He didn't compliment her on it, but continued to smile at her just the same.

“Hello ma’am,” Sam squeaked out.

“My my my Sam, you've gotten so tall! You’re probably well over six foot by now!” Ellen exclaimed as she finally released him and stepped back to take him in. Sam blushed, suddenly appearing self-conscious, but managed a smile anyway, and nodded.

“It’s good to see you boys, and you look fine as ever!” She admired. She was still smiling as she returned to her post behind her desk. She easily tucked her skirt under her in one swift motion before sitting back down.

Dean hooked his thumbs under the suspenders that were holding up his trousers.

“Is dad ready to see us yet?” He questioned, feeling antsy. Ellen nodded and motioned to the door across the room labeled “John Winchester”.

“Go right in,” she confirmed, “he’s expecting you,” Dean started for the door.

“Oh, tell Jo we said hello!” He winked, before knocking. Sam nodded and followed Dean.

“Yeah please tell her we miss her!”

“Will do!” Ellen said as the phone on the desk rang. She waved a final goodbye to the boys as she lifted to receiver and held it to her ear.

“Winchester and Co. Construction, how can we build your trust today?” She answered with the company motto. Reaching for another blank sheet of paper and her pen, she busied herself with the call.

John Winchester, in the meantime, had opened his office door.

“Sam! Dean! Come in!” They had no choice but to shuffle into their father’s room.

John’s office was roomy, and Dean had a good view of it from where he sat. His father’s drafting table was tucked away in the corner closest to the window, and Dean’s mind conjured up an image of his father standing there, a halfway-finished design under his skilled hand. He would occasionally glance out the window for a brief break or for inspiration, Dean added. He realized sadly that he couldn't remember if this was indeed a memory, or just some shadowy make believe he created. Perhaps it was both.

John’s proper desk was situated next to the drafting table, but it faced the other way, so that when John sat down at it, he faced the room. His desk was much neater than Ellen’s out front, Dean noticed. It was almost as if his father had cleared it on purpose. A similar telephone sat atop the desk. There were two smaller seats at the desk opposite John’s, for clients.

Next to this was a small table adorned with small bottles and flasks for spirits. Three clean, empty glasses sat next the alcohol undisturbed, but overturned and ready to be used.

On the wall opposite the door was a fireplace and mantle, adorned with John’s credentials Dean guessed it was to show his father earned his place in the construction business.

The remaining two walls were cleverly used as bookshelves, and were stacked nearly from floor to ceiling with books on a variety of subjects, including architecture and business-law, but not limited to such. Dean had noticed some fictional works on his way in.

In the middle of the room stood a conference table, long and narrow, where Dean and Sam where seated now.

Sam spoke up from his seat near the hearth, where a moderate fire was dancing. The flames reflected in Sam’s hazel eyes, and it crackled and popped when he spoke.

“I don’t see why we have to go to this stupid meeting ourselves, dad. Why can’t you come with us, or go by yourself?”

Dean piqued up at this question. It was a good one, Dean thought irritably to himself. It’s not enough that both his sons are up to their ears in other work, Dean working with John pretty much full time, and Sam attending university. Now John wanted them to go to some stupid meeting to meet with some stuck up oil tycoon moving into town? Dean had a few words to say.

“Sam’s right, dad, why?” Dean parroted from the seat opposite Sam at the long, narrow table. John shot Dean a look. It wasn't often Dean questioned his father. He gave John an apologetic glance, but held firm. John cleared his throat and rose from behind his desk.

“I have other business I need to take care of, boys,” He stated simply. This earned two incredulous glances from his sons. He continued anyway.

“Please, go to this meeting. There’s a fair chance we won’t get chosen for this rich family’s little…project. These days, construction is a competitive business and I need our name out there,” John paused at this, stopping to pour himself a drink, probably brandy or scotch, Dean couldn't tell. He raised the glass to his lips, taking a sip and turned toward his sons, expectantly, pleadingly.

He looked paler than normal, Dean mused. When neither of his sons said anything, he continued.

“This could be the project that makes or breaks Winchester and Co. Construction,” he explained, taking a second sip of his drink.

Dean suspected he looked a lot like his father. They had the same strong jaw line, and the same playful, mischievous air about them. His father, however, sported more scruff than Dean cared for. Dean wasn't totally opposed to stubble, he himself allowed a shadow while John didn't seem to mind a more rugged face. He also kept his mop of dark-brown, almost-black hair longer than Dean’s. It was perpetually tousled, maybe from his own hands, or maybe from the elements outside. Perhaps it worked well with clients; Dean thought, still musing to himself turning toward his brother. Sam’s hair was even longer, of course, dusting well past his ears when not tied back. He had sharp features, an angular jaw and nose that Dean imagined was some perfect blend of John and Mary. His eyes matched their fathers. Dean’s own eyes were a green of their own accord, brighter or darker whenever they so choose. He’d learned from their mother that his eyes were inherited from her father.

Dean, deciding almost automatically, stood from his seat and accepted his father’s request before Sam could object further.

“Yes, fine, we’ll do it,” he spat out before he could change his mind.

Sam was practiced in the art of sending terribly mean glances, and Dean was on the receiving end of one of those now. He shrugged at his brother. He made a mental note for them to talk about this later. John didn't notice.

John set his glass down with a small clink and strode over to where Dean was standing, taking both his son’s shoulders in his hands, a proud look on his face. He breathed a sigh of relief before pulling him in for a hug.

“Thank you, son,” He stepped back, patting Dean once more on the back before turning toward Sam and making toward him. Dean took the opportunity to grab the grey tweed jacket he’d been wearing off the back of his chair. He swung it around and fed an arm through to don it again.

“Thank you too, Sammy,” He said earnestly as Sam accepted his hug. Dean, momentarily distracted by the pleasantries, forgot about the lack of details surrounding this case.

“Dad, when’s this meeting?” Dean asked suddenly, chancing a nervous glance at his father’s clock atop the mantle above the fireplace. It was already noon. Sam looked at it too, then at his pocket watch to double check.

“It’s already noon!” he announced, hastily shoving his pocket watch back inside the pocket of his own tweed jacket.

Their father paced back behind his desk once more and took a seat.

“Four o’clock,” he said, quite clearly. At least he had the decency to seem put off by the lack of notice he was giving his sons.

“Four o’clock, when?” Sam asked like he needed an actual confirmation.

“Four o’clock this afternoon,” John repeated, “at his office.”

Dean looked at John, then back and Sam.

“Dad, we’re going to need every bit of information you've got on this oil fella, and fast,” he reasoned.

“That’s my boy!” John exclaimed as he reached down into his desk drawer and pulled out a sealed envelope, holding it out to Dean. Dean took the envelope gingerly, like it might explode at any given second.

“This is everything I have on the boy.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments please!!!! I'm new at this so be nice!
> 
> Beta'ed: 04/19/15 by Acey Camui. Thank you!!!!


	2. Dean,Cas. Cas, Dean.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam prepare for their meeting with the head of the Novak company, and Castiel prepares as well, in his own way.

“Boy?” Dean stopped trying to open the envelope his father had just handed to him “Did you just say he’s a boy? What does that mean?”

“It means he’s a spoiled little rich kid,” John explained, he gestured with an open hand toward Dean as he finished “probably no older than you.” Dean shook his head.

“How do you even know that?” He questioned, and judging by the look on Sam’s face, he wanted to know that answer too. John thought on this for a minute before speaking.

“I’m well informed,” he offered.

Dean and Sam exchanged glances.

Dean took his jacket off and flung it around the back of his chair again, and set in to pouring over the information his father had presented him with.

 

Castiel Novak was rich. Even more dangerous than that, he was headstrong and lived by his motto of “I always get what I want”. At twenty-four, Castiel could never remember actually earning the money he had lining his pockets. It had always just kind of been there. That’s not to say it came without suffering and sacrifice.

Even more dangerous than being rich and headstrong was being rich, headstrong and strikingly handsome. His mane of full, nearly black locks lie slicked back in attractive waves. His hair only suited to match his beautifully rounded face shape and squared off chin with a slight cleft in the middle. If that weren't enough to sway anyone’s favor, his eyes finished the job. The blue of his eyes was just like looking into the sky on a sunny, brisk day and seeing past all the layers of atmosphere and straight into the heavens.

  
The world was his oyster, and he had every intention of staking his claim.

  
His power, influence and money were inherited from his parents, dead and gone just three years prior. He hadn't been ready, but after his parents died, he’d had to grow into the man who would take over his father’s oil business. The man he had to become was smart, cunning and when necessary, ruthless. He often had to grapple for control, lest a more timid version of him take over. No one could come out of a tough business deal on the right end if they were timid.

Even though Castiel had studied business at university, and made exemplary marks at that, he still relied on the skill and expertise of Zachariah. Zachariah was his father’s closest friend and advisor, and Castiel had come to rely on him in times of indecision or uncertainty. He also took care of Castiel in an almost fatherly way, seeing after him.

Zachariah’s balding form sat next to him now, going through information regarding the three companies that would be attending today’s meeting. Castiel would have been more than happy to choose a contracting company and move on, but Zachariah insisted he see what more than one company had to offer before he settled on one. The whole process was rather boring if you asked him.

  
He wasn't invested in any great capacity.

  
In fact, this whole adventure could be pegged on Zachariah. Castiel had been running the family business quite well in Chicago when a family meeting was called and it had been decided that Novak Oil should plant roots in a new part of the state of Illinois. Castiel had agreed it was probably necessary to expand the family business and Pontiac was an up and coming town that was growing fast. Castiel suspected there wasn't any oil profit to be had here, but with the town’s expansion nigh, they had talked about getting the Novak name into the railroad business.

Before Castiel had even known about the company’s expansion plan, Zachariah had apparently been scoping out office spaces in the area and found the one they were sitting in now. They were seated in the spacious meeting room, which was essentially just a room with a large, narrow table surrounded by seats all around. In the center there were two silver water pitchers, one at each end, for their guests.

The rest of the office was still being unpacked and set up, a slow process, apparently.

Castiel found it hard to focus on the briefing Zachariah was trying to give him, lost in his own thoughts.

They flitted around in his head like insects around a light.

Finding an office building was taken care of already, so the need to build a newer one wasn't pressing though Castiel didn't oppose the idea. Sure, he’d probably need a contracting company when and if they caught wind of any business, but, the point of today, Castiel has gathered, was to ascertain which company to hire for the job of building a more permanent home for him. He hardly thought a hotel room was an adequate substitute for a home for as long as Zachariah expected him to live there. He scoffed mentally and tuned back in to what Zachariah had been blathering on about.

“…this last company is of little or no consequence…” Castiel turned his shoulders toward Zachariah.

“Why are they of such small consequence?” He was curious to know. He never liked to underestimate anyone.

“Well, they are part of the local scene, they have a much smaller connection network, and I cannot say for sure but I do not know what all this would say for their skill set, sir.”

Castiel furrowed his brow.

“It is not our place to underestimate the smaller of the companies, and you never know old man, maybe they will surprise us,” Zachariah scowled at Castiel for calling him an old man, but the sour face quickly faded and he smiled warmly at the younger man.

“I want them.” The tone of his voice was simple, yet obstinate.  Zachariah’s smile fell, and Castiel had to laugh. The way Zachariah’s eyes bugged out accentuated the general roundness of his face.

“Do you think this is funny, boy?” he snapped “they are only invited here on account of a favor I owe a friend; we needn't choose them for the position.”

“Good, then your favor will be fulfilled, and I will get the company I want to build my home.” He tilted his head at Zachariah defiantly.

“I really would advise against that, Castiel, at least go through with the meeting.” Castiel recognized he was trying to keep his tone even and respectful because ultimately, it was Castiel’s decision and Zachariah was well informed of this fact.

“No, Zachariah, I simply cannot bear the thought of sitting around listening to people grovel for a job. I've told you this time and time again. I have no patience for it!” This earned Castiel an incredulous look.

“And how many times do I have to tell you,” he emphasized the you “that it is not groveling. They are simply to present their ideas and explain how their business can benefit you!” he was getting redder by the second trying to convince Castiel, who was remaining inflexible.

“That’s my final answer, I’ll have Winchester and Co. Construction to build my home or I will pack up my things from that filthy hotel room and go back home.” Zachariah had all but given up, knowing the outcome of this quarrel already. He nodded solemnly, telling Castiel he would take care of notifying the suddenly disqualified companies.

With a squeak of his chair, Castiel strolled out of the conference room, passed half-emptied boxes and wide-eyed employees and made for the front door to step outside. Let Zachariah handle this, he thought irritably, he’s the one who’d gotten them into this mess anyway.

Once outside, he wandered to the back of the attractive office building and leaned against it, one knee bent with a shoe pushing against brick for support. He shivered in the chilly April air, wondering idly what time it was while he lit a cigarette procured from his pocket. White puffs of smoke billowed around him like a protective cloud of defiance. He moved to hold his left arm to himself, as his right rested on it, arm extended up to hold the cigarette between his fingers. He closed his eyes and took another drag of his smoke, sighing as he exhaled. He loved the acrid taste of it.

“Can I bum a drag off that?”

Castiel's blue eyes snapped open and he reflexively straightened his posture. Looking around worriedly, he spotted a male form not five feet from him.

“Um, sure.” Castiel said, despite his surprise. He closed the distance between himself and the stranger, handing him the cigarette, which he accepted.

“Who are you?” Castiel said curiously, no longer affected by the stranger in his presence. Rather, he was enticed by him.  The man held a finger up, motioning to wait for his answer as he enjoyed Castiel’s cigarette.

He was dressed simply, Castiel noticed, in a tweed jacket, a flat cap, a white shirt and brown trousers held up by suspenders. He nodded, half to acknowledge that he’d wait until the man was done, and half to approve of the man’s simple yet clean appearance. At the moment, Castiel felt overdressed in his suit though it wasn't one of his finer ones.

The man exhaled and offered the cigarette back to Castiel.

“Name’s Dean.” He explained. Castiel nodded again in acceptance, taking a turn smoking. He offered it back to Dean.

Dean didn't ask Castiel's name, so he remained silent and watched him smoke. Castiel's eyes twinkled in amusement as he spoke up.

“Do you make a habit of sneaking up on people while they’re enjoying a moment of peace, Dean?”

“Do you make a habit of being a pretentious ass?” He shot back, blowing smoke in Castiel's direction. It’s then Castiel notices Dean’s green eyes, and unbidden, a smile forms on his lips.

“Something funny, friend?” Dean asked, handing the cigarette back to Castiel. He seemed to be getting asked that a lot today, he mused. He shakes his head.

The moment seems languid. The can hear cars pass by on the street in front of the office. Noisy birds fly overhead, headed home for the evening. The two men blink at each other quizzically. They breathe the smoky air together. They pass the cigarette back and forth amicably, sharing without words, smoking it down to a stub.

“CASTIEL!”

Shit. Zachariah was looking for him.

“CASTIEL WHERE IN GOD’S HEAVEN ARE YOU?” the man bellowed. He took a quick drag off the stub and threw it down, grinding it out with the toe of his shoe.

“He’s looking for me.” Castiel says to Dean, belatedly realizing he should have introduced himself properly. Dean’s eyes widen in surprise, and he steps back.

“Bye then, Cas.”

“Cas.” He says to himself, tasting the way Dean said his name. Dean watches on as he tries out his own nickname.

“CASTIEL!”

“I have to go.”

 Dean only nodded in understanding.

“Oh and Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“No more sneaking up on people, especially me.” His tone is mildly threatening but he’s pushing a fresh cigarette into Dean’s hands, so Dean doesn't think too much of the idle threat.

“Yeah, no more surprises.” He agrees, looking pointedly at Cas.

“For later.” He explains, tipping his head downwards toward Dean’s hands. With that, he’s off, walking briskly back up the path back around to the front of the building.

Dean turned away and headed to opposite direction down the alley, silently berating himself for potentially ruining a business deal that could benefit his father’s company. He winds his way back down the street, the air cool and tugging at him, making him cold. As he walks he feels the cigarette, Castiel's gift a little weight in his pocket. He wraps his jacket closer to his person.

The downtown area of Pontiac Illinois was growing still. It was littered with shops of all types on either side of a modestly paved street. Most of the smaller shops and the road hadn’t been there just five years before, proving the town’s penchant for expansion. A bank and post office stood as more permanent structures, patrons strolling in and out even now finishing their errands. They were a distance up the road, but Dean knew the town and knew it well. Cars drove past Dean and he appreciated the ebb and flow of mindless traffic. He noticed a blue Chevrolet Roadster and gave a low whistle. Had to be from 1913, Dean guessed.

It wasn't a long walk from Cas' office by any means and Dean was back in no time.

Ellen greets him a second time as he enters his father’s office.

“Your father and Sam are in a state.” She warns, eyes warm and conspiratorial.

“I figured.”

Opening his father’s office door, he finds that Sam and John are indeed in a state.

“Dean!” Sam says with relief at the same time John starts in on him.

“Do you know what time it is? You two boys should have been off by now to meet with Mr. Novak! He does not like to be kept waiting! And where have you been anyway?”  Sam looks on quietly, but moves to stand beside their father.

“Yeah, Dean we thought you had gone out for a cigarette break, but obviously there was more to it.”

“I went for a walk down the street to check out the office, scope it out some.”

Sam shakes his head at this. “Why would you do that?”

Dean shrugs and searches John’s face for help. He has an indiscernible look on his face Dean doesn't understand.

“Never mind, Sam, and just you two get going.” He demands, which normally would have prompted the boys into action, but it stops them cold because the demand has sent their father into a coughing fit most violent. Dean looks frightened, like he can’t decide what to do about this and Sam’s angular features are contorted with concern.

“Dad?” Dean says tentatively.

“I’m fine. Just get going.” He says once he catches his breath, this time with notably less volition. They exit the room on their fathers demand and leave him wheezing audibly behind.

Dean and Sam are just out of the door when Sam speaks.

“What’s going on with dad?”

“I don’t know, Sammy.” Honestly, he doesn't.

“Well if he’s sick we need to try and find him help, Dean.”

“Our father can take care of himself. He’s told us as much our entire lives. If he needs our help, he’ll ask for it.” It’s simple, Dean thinks. Sam isn't as convinced. Several tendrils of his long hair have snuck out of their tie and float placidly in the wind as they walk.

“We have to help him.” he pushes again.

“No Sam. Let’s just do what dad told us and get this meeting over with. That’s what he wants. We may even get the job, you know?” Dean kind of doubts it now though. It’s not likely Cas will forget Dean’s indiscretion of sneaking up on him and calling him names.

“Fine, but if dad gets worse we have to help him.” Dean chooses to appease his brother and nods.

“Yeah, fine.”

They cross the street and the office building Dean had just visited not an hour before looms closer and in no time, they’re standing at the door fidgeting nervously.

Dean is switching his weight back and forth. Sam is taming his hair down. Dean brushes at imaginary dust on his coat. Sam pulls his cap back on and straightens up. With a decisive nod to each other, they enter the building.

Dean didn't know what to expect upon entering the attractive brick building, but it wasn't this. For all its expensive looking landscaping outside, the inside is in a state of disarray. Empty boxes are piled up in a corner, and still more are being emptied by several people speeding around hurriedly. Dean and Sam wait by the entrance, hoping to be noticed by someone.

“Ah.” a tall balding man comes into view. From his voice Dean recognizes him as the one searching for Cas earlier.

“The Winchesters are here. Excellent. I’m Zachariah.” He shakes each brother’s hand; it’s a short but firm shake.

“Dean.” Zachariah drops his hand and turns to Sam.

“I’m Sam.” Stepping back a pace, he motions for them to follow him.

“Come, come, I’ll take to you Mr. Novak.” They follow him. Its short distance to what Dean guesses is their meeting room.

“Castiel,” he calls as they encroach the doorway “I’d like you to meet the Winchesters.”

Zachariah enters first, followed by Sam, then Dean. Castiel turns toward the group, looking up from his papers. The look on his face goes from one of propagated arrogance, on display for the sake of the Winchesters, to one of unmistakable recognition as he flicks his eyes over Dean.

“This is Sam and Dean Winchester. They are the representatives of Winchester and Co. Construction.”

Castiel narrows his eyes, his arrogance back, but Dean notices his overall demeanor has changed.

“Where are the other representatives?” Dean asks rudely. Sam furrows his brow in confusion as well.

“Welcome, gentlemen.” Castiel says politely, coming to shake their hands as Zachariah had done.

“Please have a seat, we have much to discuss.”


	3. Damp Squib

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John becomes aquainted with a man he meets at The Colt, a pub near his office.

**Pontiac, Illinois**

**1900**

   
John Winchester motioned to the barkeeper that he was ready for yet another drink, making this his third, at least. If he was honest with himself, he’d lost count a while ago. It didn’t much matter after all. The barkeeper set another small glass of whiskey in front of him, exchanging it for his empty one.

“You okay pal?” He asked genuinely. John sighed and looked up. The man did look concerned for him.

“No.”

He tried to imagine what he must look like, standing here at the bar midday when he should be trying to save his failing business. Suddenly he felt a wave of self-conciseness wash over him as he remembered he’d neglected to shave that morning. It probably did nothing for his case. His dark hair was longer than he usually liked to keep it, adding to his scruffiness. Numbly, he put the glass to his lips and tossed back the bronzed drink, reveling in the burning sensation that followed. The man placed another, fuller glass in front of him.

“On the house.”

He was at The Colt, a pub situated at the corner of Washington and Mill streets, conveniently on the same block as his office. The bartender turned around to tend to another customer.

This time of day there really weren't many patrons around, just a few, but he didn't bother to examine them at any length. Some stood at the bar while others sat at small wooden tables across from the bar that were only big enough for two. Behind the bar stood the attractive barkeeper and John struggled to remember the man’s name. Failing, he gave up and continued his drunken appraisal of his surroundings. It was bright, for an overcast day at least. The midday light seeped through the ostentatious windows that took up most of the wall facing the street, mixing with cigarette smoke, making the air inside The Colt slightly hazy. Patrons walked passed the grand windows and John had the fleeting thought that they should at least stop to talk to him, or slow down, or even nod to him. They never did.

Didn't they care that he’d lost everything?

He watched the barkeeper for a while as he filled other patron’s orders. He laughed and spoke easily to his customers, and it was fascinating to watch. Sometimes, he’d reach for the shelves mounted on the wall behind the bar for a bottle and pour out a drink. Replacing the lid, he’d place the bottle back on the shelf with care. Other times, he’d reach for the large handles sticking up from behind the bar, and John would watch with rapt attention as the tap filled the empty glass with a brew from any number of local distilleries.

John sighed and motioned for another whiskey.

He had been there for the better part of the late morning and he’d had quite a lot of whiskey, but not enough to forget the gravity of his situation. Once again he found himself putting an empty glass down with a clink and a small heavy scraping noise as he shoved it back across the bar for the barkeeper to pick up.

“He’ll have another, please.”

At first John thought the voice was referring to someone else, but as a shadow darkened the area to his left, he was acutely aware of someone standing next to him expectantly.

“I’m not in the mood to talk.” He said, quite rudely in fact. He didn't care. When had he started slurring?

“Mr. Winchester, I think you’d better think twice about that.” John scoffs but accepts his newly filled glass of whiskey, downing it quickly and exhaling sharply at the burn of it.

“Cheers, love.”

“What do you want, tommy?” John insults, placing the man’s accent. The Brit's voice was a smooth tenor that had a slight rasp on occasion.

“It’s a little early to be calling names, mate.” The man was seemingly unaffected by John’s dour mood.

“Hmph.”

“I was sitting there near the door when I noticed you drowning in whiskey. You look absolutely gutted. I thought I’d come to see if I could be of any assistance.”

“How’s that?”

“You tell me.” The man lilted in his definite British accent, raising his forearms up to each side of him and shrugging his shoulders. He turned his head at the same time for dramatic effect.  
John’s curiosity won out, he gave up being sour and turned toward the man. He was a good few inches shorter, 5’10’’ John wagered, against his own 6’2’’. John tried to pretend he didn't stumble a bit as he prepared to introduce himself.

“John.” he introduces himself, sticking a hand out to the stranger.

“Call me Crowley.” the man retorts, hand meeting John’s. They shake briefly, and John took a second to observe his new friend. He was shorter, yes, but every bit as handsome and John thought they seemed to be the same age. He was clean shaven as much as John was not, and his brunette hair was stylishly combed back, but remained free of any hair product to slick it down. His full head of hair sat atop a slim oval shaped face that sported thick eye brows and a marginally large forehead. Despite the latter, he was still pleasant to look at, at least.

“You really care about a poor man’s problems?” He asks wryly.

“Not at all.” John paused at that, turning his head away, tutting. There was background noise, glasses clinking, the bell over the door tolling as a person left the pub. He turns his head back to Crowley after a beat.

“Then what do you want?”

“I want you to stop looking utterly pathetic and start telling me how your life’s gone all to pot. Then, we’ll see if I can help you.”

John was taken aback at Crowley’s brazen answer. Well, at least someone’s been honest with him, after all. What did he have to lose? Maybe the alcohol had gotten the better of him, after all.

“Mr. Crowley,” he started, laying a bill on the bar to settle up his tab, “follow me to my office.” The bell above the door tolled as they left, signaling their hasty exit.

The November air outside was crisp, and it stung slightly at John’s cheeks as they walked down Mill Street. Leaves crunched underfoot, and a mixture of horse-drawn carriages and automobiles ambled along the road. It was quiet, most people still at work or at home. The Colt was at the corner and John’s office was no more than a block and a half away.

“Nice town you have here.” Crowley observed, noticing the way the townspeople had decorated for fall where they could. There were small bushels of straw tied up against the tall lampposts, and pumpkins and gourds decorated various storefronts. John nodded, his mind laden with alcohol and other matters at the moment. He focused hard on walking straight.

“Do you live nearby?” Crowley asked offhandedly, making conversation.

“Yeah, if you go the opposite way, I live just outside of the downtown area, a division of the town called Prairie Greens.” Crowley nodded. The two men walked the rest of the way in silence, and soon the Winchester and Co. Construction sign was above them.

They entered his office after introducing Crowley to Ellen, who was busy, but cordial. She wasn't so busy she couldn't pick up on John's less than sober state, and she caught his eye to shake her head. John gave a small smile, hoping it helped.

“Make yourself comfortable.” John instructed as the office door closed with a thud behind Crowley. John shrugged out of his coat and slung it around his chair as Crowley took stock of his office, noting the many books and fascinating at the drafting table. Crowley nodded in acknowledgement as his eyes swept the rest of the room, coming to rest in front of John’s desk. He followed his own gaze and sat down at one of the two chairs in front of it. He cocked his head slightly, and regarded John silently for a moment before he spoke.

“So, what’s got you going for a piss up in the middle of the day?” John had to give it to him; the man was blunt if nothing else. Admittedly, he admired that. Still, this Crowley had better watch it.

“What makes you think I was there at The Colt for a reason? Hmm? What if I just wanted a drink on my lunch?” Crowley seemed to consider this, even steeples his fingers together in front of him for show.

 “Nah, I don’t buy it, mate.” Well, John didn't quite know what to say or how to proceed from here, because Crowley was narrowing his green eyes like he was going in for a kill and John was his prey.

“You looked pretty determined to me to get yourself right drunk, and there’s got to be a reason for it.” John broke the intense gaze and stared down at his desk.  
Crowley waited.

Maybe it was the alcohol still swimming around in his brain, maybe it was the fact that he had no more options, but John could feel the wall he’d put up crumbling and the dam that held his feelings bursting wide open. He did his best not to show it in front of the Brit.

“I had a business deal go bad,” Crowley nodded for John to go on “very bad.” Crowley nodded again, moving to place his elbow on the arm on his chair. He’d bent his arm up and his head rested on his fingertips.

“I invested everything I had into this business deal because I was promised it would come through.” John’s eyes grew distant at the memory. Crowley didn't seem inclined to speak just yet, so John went on.

“Our companies needed each other,” he explained trying not to slur too badly,“we had several meetings, and we decided we should merge and work together. For us, it meant getting the steel we need for building would be easier and cheaper, and for his company, it meant he had a steady customer buying steel from him.”

“Sounds like a fair enough deal to me.” Crowley finally interjects. John was still seated at his desk, arms crossed over his chest. One forearm was extended up so he could rub at the stubble growing on his chin. He lifted this hand from his chin now, and used it to make a small sweeping arc in front of him.

“So did I!” he replaced the hand and resumed rubbing, this time at his jawline. “So did I,” he repeated nodding slightly, “until he told me he would need some start-up funds. Up until last week, I thought his company was well established. He talked like it was. Then one day he comes to me and tells me that his boss wouldn't loan him the money to start his gig. He wouldn't tell me who it was, no matter how much I asked, so I figured maybe it was none of my business.” he paused here, noting Crowley’s expression, one that undoubtedly said that John had made a stupid decision. John abandoned rubbing his face in favor of simply crossing his arms over his chest.

“I know it was stupid, but he made me trust him. We’d gotten close, we were friends even. He explained he had a lot of connections and could easily pay me back, and quick. I even figured I was better off not knowing who his business contacts were or what kind of business they do,” he lowered his eyes from Crowley’s as if shamed, “it can get dangerous.”

“So, what did you do?” Crowley prompts.

“I told him to get lost!” John’s head snapped back up in emphasis.

 “You told the poor bugger to sod off! Brilliant!” Crowley seemed endlessly entertained by this fact.

“Not for long though. He begged me to help him. He said I was his last chance to make something of himself and be successful. He said this would help both of us, told me to think about my kids and their futures.”

“Kids?”

“Two boys. Dean, 9 and Sammy, 5.”

“Ah.”

“Anyway, I felt for the fella, and like I said, we’d come to be great friends so I gave him everything I had. I had $50,000 for him. It came from my personal savings, my business accounts, and advances from my next job.”

“What happened next?”

“Last week he came to my office to tell me the money was gone, and that his boss had blackmailed him into investing the money I’d loaned him into his company instead of his own. I tried to get him to explain more, but he only apologized, and barely at that. I tried to go after him but no luck. He wasn't at his office. I couldn't reach him by telegraph or by telephone. His house was all but abandoned. It’s like he’d been planning this for weeks. He’s just gone.”

“Rubbish!” Crowley was rightly outraged at this and John nodded in agreement.

“So there you have it. I lost everything, and now my company is at stake. My company, my wife, my boys,” tears sprung to his eyes “my boys.” He repeated softly, covering his face with his hands. A tear escaped the hazel pools of his eyes. Crowley allowed him a moment then spoke with a determined edge to his accent.

“John we can fix this.” John froze.

 “What do you mean?”

“I’m filthy rich. You've heard of Crowley Maritime Corporation I trust?” John blinked a few times, making the connection.

“Yes, of course. They transport all the materials we get from overseas.”

“That’s the one, my father owns it. I have money; I can give it to you right now if I wanted.” John didn't even get his hopes up; he couldn't believe what he was hearing.  
  
“Yeah, well, why would you do that?”

“Not out of the kindness of my heart, that’s for sure.”

“Then why?”

“I’m a prince, metaphorically speaking. Granted, the prince of a hell of sorts, but I’m a prince nonetheless and I only take orders from my king, my father. I have to do as he wishes. He wishes to know all companies with...a certain potential…are…on his side.” He nods, words chosen carefully.

“What does that mean?” John asks, picking up on the vague nature of Crowley’s speech even through the whiskey that was starting to wear off.

“It means, if I help you now, and your company becomes successful later, part of your company will belong to us. You’re indebted to us.” We’ll own you. Crowley let the unspoken words hang in the air. John seemed interested now, elbows on the desk, leaning forward.

“How much of my company would belong to you?”

“That depends.” Crowley sat up straighter now, too. John cocked his head.

“On?”

“It’s a sliding scale. The percentage of ownership on our part depends on how successful you become, but not to worry, mate, the cap is 60%. No matter what, you’ll still own 40% of the company.”

John sat back in his seat with a sigh, considering.

“I’ll pass.”

“You can’t afford to do that!” Crowley pounds a fist down on John’s desk to make his point. It was a heavy thud against the wood.

“I can’t let my company be owned by anyone outside the Winchester family, not even in part!”

His words were final, but his face gave him away, betraying his inner thoughts of still going through with it despite himself.

“If you pay me off by the 16th year of your loan, you keep 100% of your company.” The terms roll off Crowley’s tongue easily. John considers again, tries to imagine what he could do for other work. Tries to imagine what Mary would say, tries to imagine his boys growing up without the things they needed and the father they deserved. It broke his heart. His love for his family, especially the boys, runs bone deep and his loyalty knows no bounds. As if Crowley was following him thought for thought, he spoke again.

“Think of your wife, your boys. You don’t want to disappoint them.” John leaned forward now, mind clear despite his afternoon at the pub.

“I’ll do it.”

“All right then,” Crowley says, standing, “you’re not the damp squib I thought you were.” John shook his head and stood as well.

“I don’t know what that means but I’m glad I’m not. So do I sign something somewhere, Mr. Crowley?”

“No, mate, that’s not how my deals are made.”

John’s face screwed up in confusion. “Then how…?”

Before he could finish his thought, Crowley was standing in front of him, and before John could even register that, Crowley’s lips were on his and he was being kissed. Crowley’s lips were smooth but pushy and insistent on his own, rougher than Mary’s kisses for sure, but not unpleasant. Crowley pulled away, but left his hands on John’s shoulders, looking at him.

“What on earth was that?” John asked, lips puffy. He lifted a finger to feel them.

“That, my dear new friend, is how my deals are made.” With that, Crowley playfully clapped his hand on John’s shoulder and turned toward the door.

“But…” John stuttered, at a loss for words, but Crowley was already opening the door and yelling out a jovial “Ta!”

It took a few minutes for John to eventually collect himself. He grabbed his jacket and pulled it on quickly in the waiting area as he passed by Ellen.

"Ellen, I'm taking the rest of the afternoon off." he thought he saw her nod.

 John barley heard her reply as he stepped outside.

He didn't care for the idea of going home just yet. Home was where Mary was, waiting for him. Kindly, she'd ask how his day had gone. He wouldn't have an answer. Dean and Sam would run to hug him like it was the first time they'd seen their father in years. He couldn't handle disappointing them yet. People greeted him on the street as he passed by, and he remembered working for some of them at one time or another. He walked until no one was left to greet him, until he was past the busy, noisy downtown.

He kept walking once he was well past that, too. He walked until his feet ached from it in his still too-new-for-this-shoes. They were fashionable, and did match his cheap suit, but were not made for walking. He looked more expensive than he was. He sighed with relief as the trees thickened around him, and the ground beneath him gave way to grass.

He stopped once he reached the beginning of a small wooden pier that opened up onto a larger wooden deck. He crossed to the end of it, and rested his elbows on the wide wooden fence that separated himself from the rest of the water. This was the Vermillion River, stretched out in front of him. When days at the office got to stressful, or him and Mary have a spat, this is where he comes. This is his.

He sighed, and looked out at the black depths looming before him. It rippled where the wind played at the surface.  
For the millionth time, he wondered what he’d done, what ramifications it would have for him and his family. He hadn't signed anything, but Crowley had been so sure that the kiss had sealed their deal. He thought about the kiss and absently reached for his lips again, musing that he’d never kissed a man before.

The lake usually always calmed him, but it did nothing for his frayed nerves today. His nerves felt raw, exposed, like the empty tress around him. He wondered if it hurt the exposed branches when the wind blew at them.

He stood there for a long time, just watching the water, the trees. He even spotted a deer on shore to his right, chancing a drink of water despite John's presence.

He stayed until long after the deer left, until the first fringes of darkness began to cover the sky. A sudden chill ran down his exhausted body, snapping him back to the here and now. He shook his head, and made his way back down the pier, towards home. Soon it was dark, and John was glad of it, it meant this day was over at long last. He collected what wits he had about him and finally headed home.

Yes, everything had a price.

He just wondered what his would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed 04/24/15 by AceyCamui


End file.
